


A Helping Hand

by murakistags



Series: Introspection [2]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Hallucinations, Hannigram - Freeform, M/M, Masturbation, Mild Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-08
Updated: 2016-03-08
Packaged: 2018-05-25 13:09:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6196306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/murakistags/pseuds/murakistags
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“ 'M-More, Hannibal!'</p><p>When he cries out that name into the empty air of his home, Will feels the tears finally escape. They are pained and fearful, for he is trapped in the unrelenting grip of the devil himself.”</p><p>Post-Mizumono (02x13). Hannibal has fled, but still Will cannot seem to shake that strong influence left in his wake. Even in Will's most intimate moments, those hands can effortlessly reach in and touch, and help. That touch had always felt good beneath the surface, just as it does now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Helping Hand

**Author's Note:**

> This was initially written as an aside on @stagmetanoia, on Twitter. I've edited it a little and here we have it now, it all of its strange glory. Obviously there is a warning for sexual content, though it is mild. Please enjoy.

Whenever Will would outstretch a hand, calloused palm facing upwards and searching for a hand to reach back and grab his, it is inevitably the hand of Dr. Hannibal Lecter that comes along and fills that empty space. With solid fingers possessing an insane amount of skill be it in the arts more classical on paper or surgically deep within human flesh, there is a feeling of that power that makes Will's skin tingle. His physical touch with Hannibal, to date, had been meager and scarce, and while he cannot say that he dislikes this…Will cannot find a comfort in it either. Most people would do well to never touch the empath, as it makes him most uncomfortable. But in those fleeting moments during which Hannibal Lecter smooths the skin of Will's sweaty face with thumbs, or vaguely touches his hand, or even his hair and body in a tight hug and grasp, Will cannot bring himself to object much. Every nerve in his body would tingle incessantly for _more_ , while his angry brain would scream for less. It's always something maddening, a special something that he can only address with Hannibal.

 

Intimacy by the hand was never something in which Will Graham found much pleasure or happiness. His strongest of the five senses would have to be that of tactile sensation if he had to rate it himself, but even so he finds it very unrewarding. There have been many a night that his own strong grip upon his semi-erect cock ended in nothing but disappointment and a flaccidity soon thereafter. He wished and yearned more, always, but how does one wish for exactly what they despise and fear to a certain extent?

 

Yes, it is very much the same with Hannibal. That man's face comes into view with all of those small wrinkles of age, those sharp cheekbones that could give even the steely glide of his scalpels a run for their money. The most striking feature, however, is that glint of maroon eyes, sharp and keen and _aware_ of everything, even of what Will cannot possibly fathom. Even so, the tip of nose, the smoothness of lips and bumps of his tongue, the curve of ears and the sharpness of gaze…nothing still can compare to the _touch_. It may be Hannibal's face that Will can see in this hazy dream-like state of hallucination, but it is the agent's very own touch upon his sex.

 

He has grown stiff, his curved length standing at attention and throbbing against his lower belly with a hot jolt of pain at the lack of pleasure. With the side of his sweaty head buried deep into his pillow, and the rest of his body splayed against his wrinkled and messy bedsheets, Will Graham wraps his fist around his length slowly. Very slowly, at first. Though it may be unsatisfying for the severe and sudden lust, he needs to find a rhythm. The slow gesture more fully bunches his boxers against his thick thighs, the fabric forgotten and disregarded for now.

 

Those blue eyes of his are closed tight, and not a moment later his entire face is scrunched in pleasure and pain, his scraggly-haired jaw locked in place to endure it all. He looks like a man filled with burden, that of a seed yet to be drawn from the coils of his tightening belly. And no matter how hard he strokes himself with his quickly-drying spit, his skin begins to feel chaffed, uncomfortable, and more softer still by the moment. It's unfortunate, and yet the man still fights against it to draw out his own release, fighting valiantly in a war he will not win.

 

Will bucks his hips forward into his own hand, thrusting, and the movement causes a small creak of the bed beneath him. In some distant part of his mind, the sound registers as the presence of another being, one creeping so silently against his back. The sudden pressing of a larger body flush to his back makes the empath gasp out loudly as a sudden heated wave wisps down his length, from scrotum to the very reddened and engorged tip. …Perhaps he _is_ very aroused after all.

 

'Good boy, Will.'

 

That voice. That _voice_. It makes his eyes prickle hotly. It's as if that voice never spoke to him before, never whispered such gentle and painful words to him just before that body pressed to his front, and left a jagged scar across his lower abdomen that day. It makes him want to weep, and yet simultaneously burst with rage and vengeance. It awakens a beast within Will that he scarcely knew existed until he met this man who invasively accosts every last sense of his. The lean body against his back is enough to ground him in the present, to hold him close to reality and to further urge his hips to fill his own hand with erect skin. Fingers close tighter, pump harder, and a pressure considerably rises.

 

"A-Aahn…"

 

A wickedly twisted grunt of pain and need passes his lips parted to pant like one of his canines. Desperation on every heaving breath comes with gasps and moans and loud keens and whines for more, from a second hand that suddenly becomes helpful. Hannibal Lecter's hand is mildly larger than his own, far, far less shaky in his actions, more _firm_ and _sure_. Will is envious of it, but never will speak of that. Rather, he can only cry, his eyes legitimately beginning to water as a sob overtakes his chest.

 

The thrusts become harder and more uneven, the movements shaking his own frail body, shaking the bed in his modest little home, that furious jerking of his weeping cock just moments from a release he so _sorely_ needs. When Hannibal's hand brushes his own away and instead takes the lead, Will head is thrown back and his back arches harshly. It's _amazing_ , and it draws forth tears. Harder, harder, more–

 

"M-More, _Hannibal_ …!"

 

When he cries out that name as it hits the empty air of his home, Will feels the tears finally escape. They are pained and fearful, for he is trapped in the unrelenting grip of the devil himself. But the salty droplets are also of immense pleasure unable to be contained, rolling down his face to soak into his pillowcase. Lips part and pant, but also now sob, softly at first.

 

With one last series of violently desperate pumps and thrusts into his very own palm, Will Graham finds his release rather suddenly. It hits him like a slap in the face, and draws out a long and low moan, and then a harsh breaking of voice. Just as his hot and sticky release fills his palm and dribbles onto his bedsheets, his fresh teardrops will not stop, thick and unrelenting just as well.

 

Quietly, Will cries for his uncomfortable release and what has been, the becoming and what will be…he sobs for himself, the pitiful act he's just committed in this feverish haze of loneliness and uncertainty. He cries because Hannibal Lecter, once more, has so smoothly influenced him in a way so, so very intimate.

 

The scent of spent sex and sweat fills the air around the empath, and he only sobs harder as it fills his nostrils…because it feels as if Hannibal himself can _smell_ it, even though the doctor is nowhere to be seen.

 

From day one, it seems, Hannibal's helping hand was always there for Will. He hadn't been aware of how deeply into him that grip had truly reached…not until now. He sobs, because it had always felt so _good_ …just as it did this time, too.

**Author's Note:**

> If you liked it, don't forget to leave kudos and comments. They inspire me and make me smile.
> 
> Please consider [buying me a coffee for a fic](https://ko-fi.com/murakistags)!


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